Letters for You
by gecko-chan
Summary: When Sherlock is diagnosed with a terminal illness, the detective does the best in his power to keep the truth from the ones he loves. Sensing something is wrong, John works to uncover the cause. What will Sherlock do with his last living days? Warnings: Romance light, can be otherwise interpreted, and character death.
1. Chapter 1

**A/n: Hello all! This idea struck me while I was writing the update for my other Sherlock fic, and I felt like writing it as opposed to working on an awful project...Anyhow, here we are!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine by any drug-addled, hallucinating stretch of the imagination.**

**Letters for You**

**Chapter 1 **

Completely alone in the flat, Sherlock rolled a pill bottle between his fingers, listening to each pellet tap against the orange plastic container surrounding it. _I guess this is it, _he thought, _end stage congestive heart failure. No treatment works anymore, just nothing. These are for the pain, to take the edge off it, I guess. _

Hearing the door unlock, Sherlock jumped, thrusting the bottle deep into his jacket. He wasn't prepared to tell John, not yet.

"Sherlock!" the stout man called from the doorway. "I brought Chinese, help me put the groceries away and we'll eat!" Shifting forward, John grabbed the bags once more and closed the door behind him with his foot.

As the doctor started for the kitchen, Sherlock darted to his room, dismissing his friend's proposition with a simple "not hungry". Situating himself on the bed, Sherlock rolled and examined the bleakness that was his space. Barren walls, empty nightstand, boring sheets, and a dresser. Nothing more, nothing less, only serving as a place he occasionally slept and storage for his clothes. _This won't be too difficult to clear up afterwards...The common room is a whole other matter._

Otherwise silent in the flat, the detective listened as John put the shopping away in their respective cupboards. _Jelly, clearly in that awful squeaky-hinged second cabinet. Pasta, he's putting it in that jar. The one with the sheep and cows on it...Why on Earth he liked that thing when he saw it at a swap meet...Milk. Oh, it seems he's found the ears. _"Sherlock!" John cried, "Why are there _ears _in here? We put _food _in here. _Not_ stray body parts!" _Yup, he found them._

Smiling, he shouted, "Well, where _else _am I supposed to put them?"

"I don't know. The morgue, the hospital storage? Shrink them and sell them to tourists for all I care, just not in the fridge!" John rallied, removing the leaking mass from the shelf and placing it in the sink. He would have to pull out the bleach of this and would finish with just enough time to eat cold Chinese food. "At least join me if you've nothing better to do than yell through your bedroom door!"

"Why should I do that?" Sherlock returned, pleased by the banter.

"Just humor me!" John requested.

Chuckling, Sherlock slid himself off his bed and stood. Overcome by a bout of dizziness, the detective groped at the nightstand and waited for the world to cease trembling before his eyes. Palpitations audible, his breaths sped up, free hand flooding to his chest.

"Sherlock?" the doctor called from the kitchen, concerned for the lack of response.

Settling down, Sherlock rose fully, swaying slightly in place. After regaining a stable breathing pattern, he removed the pill bottle from his pocket and slid it into the drawer of his nightstand to keep the other half-dozen plastic cartridges company. John needn't know about this.

Though the pain still lingered, Sherlock put on a composed expression and walked across the room, careful to not exacerbate the issue. Opening the door, the detective strode into the kitchen and saw John scrubbing away at the dried blood that stained the fridge's interior, his precious experiment forlorn in the sink. "You get to re-wrap that," John commented. "This time, make sure it's properly sealed. No more congealed blood."

Grinning ear to ear, Sherlock grabbed the plastic bags from the top shelf of one of the cabinets and enveloped the ears with enough plastic to satisfy his friend. The experiment would have to wait for later.

Now finished cleaning, John slipped the rest of the food into the fridge and broke open the takeout. As the doctor headed for their small dining table, Sherlock slid the set of ears and his own food (which would surely be abandoned until John caved in and ate it himself to avoid waste) in the fridge for safekeeping. Plopping down on the chair across from John, the detective watched the man eat, unsure of what else to do or say. Never before had the conversation between two felt so forced, so much thought required to so much as initiate a conversation.

Abandoning his fork amongst the mountain of food, John looked up, studying the lanky man before him. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing's wrong," Sherlock insisted, meeting John's eyes to help validate his claim.

"Sherlock," John began, voice chiding. "I know you're lying to me. You've been eating even less than you normally do...even when you're not on cases, which is more often than not...Yet, you haven't complained about boredom, not once in the last week. You've been sleeping more...Being more...helpful. You've been distracted, distant, yet you've been coming here, sitting across from me like this every day while I eat. You won't take a bite, hardly say a word. Something's wrong."

Sighing, the detective cursed how observant his friend could be sometimes. "John, I promise nothing is wrong."

"Fine," John breathed. "I'm just worried, alright?"

"It's nothing, I swear," Sherlock lied, smiling reassuringly to his only friend. _I...just don't know what to say. Hello, John, I'm dying. Yes, I've gotten a second opinion. No, there are no donors. How long you ask? I don't even know that myself._

**End of Chapter 1**

**A/n: For those of you reading my long fic - My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting - you will probably notice this will be different. I wanted to do something short (though I am historically horrid at actually keeping things brief), so I hope this works out. Anyhow, thank you for your time. Now that you've read, please review! 'Till next time! **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n: Hello all! I would like to thank my reviewers and followers and all you wonderful people! Anyhow, without much further delay~**

**Disclaimer: Not mine! **

**Letters for You**

**Chapter 2 **

Face streaked with tears, John stared at the bundle of letters resting in his lap and caressed his name on the first white envelope. A familiar scrawl, created by _his _hand. He had to face it, open the first letter. Slipping the cheap twine from its window-pane orientation, the doctor set it aside carefully to ensure the knot stayed in place. After all, he had tied it.

Leaning against the wall from his position on the floor, John kicked the capsized end table to the side to make room for the thick pile of letters. Once they were settled by his side, he drew the first and took a deep breath. Sherlock hadn't forgotten after all, maybe perhaps he cared?

Ready as he could ever be, John unsealed the envelope and began reading.

_John-_

_The prognosis does not look good. I thought I could manage, that I could hide it from you, and that before long, I could simply take a 'vacation' and recover from any resulting surgeries. Now there seems to be barely a chance to so much as to be able to get that far. _

_This problem started at birth, so to speak, but I didn't notice any prevalent symptoms until a few years ago when I had my first heart attack after an otherwise particularly incapacitating night. When I arose, I saw Mycroft hovering over my bed. He had not only came flying to my aid, but had also checked me into rehab, which I escaped...repeatedly. _

_I was told I had to stop, that I was going to destroy myself, and I took it as a challenge. Amidst my drug-laden daze, I'd tell myself that I'd manage to end it somehow, the relentless boredom, the whirling thoughts, the limitless connections. And then a massive attack stuck, leaving me alone in squalor, afraid to die alone with nothing. Before I met my death, Mycroft plucked me from my filth and threw me into a detox center with more than enough security to stifle my ploys. Too frightened to ruin it, I continued along the set course with enough snide remarks to temporarily satiate my boredom. _

_An addict, John, is really all I am in the end. Even though they told me to stay away from drugs, tobacco, alcohol, strenuous activities, I couldn't help myself. They said the damage was too great, and despite that, I couldn't find myself caring. I'd rather live my life the way I pleased for a short while than live a miserable lengthy duration. _

_I recovered; I felt fine with medication, like I could topple the world in a mere moment. With Lestrade, I felt like I had found my calling: the novelty of crime solving. The rush it gave me, the unsatisfied urge to find more and more. I was twisted, hoping for abominable crimes to occur just for me to solve, something only I could solve. _

_Still feeling well, I picked up smoking not long before I met you. Another bad habit that you immediately objected to. At your prompting, I quit with much complaint...Yet you wouldn't let my silliness fester much past it. You forced me into living a healthier life (though you would probably decry my behavior as unhealthy, it has been better from years' past), and it is likely left me with this last year I wouldn't have otherwise had._

_But I've been slowing down, I can feel it. I've been taking fewer cases, trying to push myself less and less. After visiting the doctor, I was formally diagnosed. End stage congestive heart failure, an old man's disease. Something someone twice, thrice, my age should be prone to have. With the inherent condition, chronic periods of substance abuse, and over all poor means of living, I exacerbated something trivial to the point of no return. And it's all my fault. Sherlock Holmes, not killed in the line of work, but by his own childish vices._

_As it stands, there are no available transplants. Mycroft has searched and scored, but to no avail. Medicine was always the only thing he couldn't bend. Sure, he could pay researchers, find the best technology, but he can't utilize something that doesn't yet exist._

_Just when I was starting to enjoy life. Always just in time, right John?_

John stared at the letter before him, trying to wrap his mind around the rawness in which Sherlock wrote. All he had known about that period in his life was that he had an addiction, let alone the fact that he had a heart condition. _Just...just what did I know about him? He knew my life story, where I've come from, what I've done, in a mere moment, reading my like an open book...But he seldom talked about himself; I hardly could bring myself to ask. Why didn't I get to know him better while I had the chance? Dammit._

Rereading the last line, the doctor choked back another sob. Sherlock was happy with him, enjoyed life, but was cut short wanting more.

Wiping his puffy eyes, John ran his fingers along the edge of the letter and examined each swirl in Sherlock's scrawl. This small pile was all he had left for Sherlock to say to him. Carefully, he slid the first letter back into its original envelope and moved it to the back of the bundle. Taking up the second letter, he pulled the contents and began reading.

_John -_

_I never thought I'd live too long in the first place, that I'd burn out young and die. Simple as that. An accident, on intention, an overdose, it wouldn't matter. I could never picture myself growing older, losing my faculties, becoming an incompetent shell of what I once was. Purposeless, an easy way to describe it. I'd spent the majority of my life trying to figure it out, just what was it I was meant to do with myself, a waste of human intelligence._

_But as the years went on, and I cleaned myself up, I found myself where I am now. I never thought these times would end, but the bitter reality is fast approaching. I had fun, John, I truly did. Chasing criminals, conducting experiments, insulting Donovan and Anderson, teasing you. It all was quite fun, amusing, not boring in the slightest. _

_I don't want it to end. I'm not ready to die yet. I don't feel like I've done everything I should have, like I'm some child barely starting out on life, prospects high, except they have time aplenty. Just as life was starting to even out, as soon as I started to get used to it, understand what it was like to properly live, I can feel it slip away. I could have done so much more, but I squandered it; I wasted my time. Wasted my life. _

_If I could have listened. If only I had just simply listened! I wouldn't have been put in this place to begin with, and I would have all the time I needed, anything more than what I have now. Everything is my fault. I shouldn't complain. I consciously chose to continue on with my life foolishly, burning at both ends in a self-destructive plight. Even though I can still hardly think of myself growing older, I could bear with it, were I actually able to allow it to naturally occur._

_But I'm just not ready. I'm not ready to die, to leave everyone behind. Every day, I watch you, your every movement, how saddening it is to not be permitted to enjoy that simple pleasure. To be unable to solve crimes, to conduct experiments, to evoke the strangest looks on your faces. I will severely miss all these chances._

_Will it hurt? What will my death be like? Will I be alone, found to your horror in the morning hours, unaware of my illness. Will I have been unable to tell you? To give you any sort of forewarning? Would you hate me for it? Would you be sad?_

Brows furrowing, John answered the paper, "You told me, of course I'm sad, dummy." As tears pricked in his eyes once more, he wiped them away to continue reading.

_When I die, just what will happen?_

_I've always thought when we're dead we simply decompose into our respective elements, slowly returning our oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen, calcium, potassium, sodium, magnesium, phosphorus, sulfur, copper, zinc, selenium, molybdenum, fluorine, chlorine, iodine, manganese, cobalt, iron, lithium, strontium, aluminum, silicon, lead, vanadium, arsenic, and bromine to our surroundings as our only true survivors. We lose our heat, what's left of our energy to the atmosphere, contributing for the last time to the entropy of the universe. The mind, synapses inactive, unstimulated, is no more. There is no soul, just a series of chemical processes following along a web of wires. Just this blackness is left for us, an exhausted sleep from which you will never wake, no conscious thoughts, no dreams, no heaven. _

_I can now truly understand why people flock to religion. Having nothing left for you other than a miserable, ephemeral existence, is sad, lonely. What next? How could something I felt so intensely, something I considered so significant, of this great importance, wind up being just an illusory gem, only to be crushed by an apathetic reality. I want so desperately to believe in something greater; with proof, to quash my uncertainty, I want there to be more. There should be more, more than the comfort the thought provides. If not, how unfair, how cruel to just cut something so wonderful so short. _

_For once in my life, I want to be wrong. _

**End of Chapter 2**

**A/n: I had honestly planned two more scenes for this chapter, but I just couldn't write them right after that. What the hell, me? Oh, and I should be updating Absence tonight, too. Next time: John's reaction to that second letter, some flashback times (to help you figure out just what actually happened), and more letters. If you find this in the slightest interesting, please review! I'd love to hear your take on some of the topics addressed. 'Till next time!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n: Hello again! I can't think of too much to say other than thanks guys ^^ Special thanks to billieleemcpake99, my only reviewer of the chapter (who also checked all four boxes at the bottom down there - oh gosh, I felt so loved :D). Without much more delay, here's Chapter 3~**

**Disclaimer: Not mine!**

**Letters for You**

**Chapter 3**

Too overwhelmed to think clearly, John stared at the letter before him as tears streamed down his face. Why Sherlock? Why now? What if he was right all along? Then there was really nothing left of him, no mind, no soul, no spirit. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and he wasn't coming back, his best friend.

Wiping away the tears with his wool sweater, the doctor cringed as it scratched at his swollen eyelids. Though they felt as if they were bleeding, John forced them open despite the stinging. He had to keep reading, Sherlock had written these for him.

Stiffly, he pulled himself off the floor and onto shaky legs. The wear of the last week finally hitting him, John staggered to Sherlock's sofa and plopped on it, letters in hand. As he inhaled Sherlock's remaining scent, he pulled the third letter from its stack, which was now resting on his stomach.

Dry eyes blurring before him, John struggled to focus on the writing before him. No, he would read this, just one more.

_John-_

_I don't know how to tell you, if I could even handle the thought of your knowing. I don't want to worry you, to be handled with kid gloves; I just want to live our lives like we have been, but I know that's no longer possible. All together, I've just about stopped leaving the flat while referring to my intense boredom with infrequency. You know there's something wrong, but I just can't tell you, can't let you figure it out for yourself even._

_But what if it's the opposite? What if you didn't care, like my impending death were somehow a relief of your burden? You could date again, regularly work, not spend hours of your life indulging me, sanitizing the kitchen; you would be safe, no more harm could come your way save accidents beyond control. Even though I know you'd worry (I never confined you to me...why would you have stayed so long otherwise?), I can't shake the thought from my mind. What if you don't return my fondness? What if I wasn't missed...Did I mean anything to you?_

_I know, I know you care. You have to. No one has willingly lived with me for this long (and in a way, you can still say you're the only one to have regardless), no one has stood with me, stood for me even, saving me the most from myself. My own chronically foolish decisions. I know you just have to._

_But what if you don't? What if I'm wrong? This doubt, John, it's killing me. I've never been so uncertain in my life...I've never been so frightened to not be loved by someone. It's absurd, shouldn't be a question. But what if it's true? It shouldn't be, but...What if you're just this nice to everyone, naturally selfless? Am I special to you in the slightest? Would you miss me any more than you would someone else?_

_You're the only person who has made it this far, breaching my comfortable level of propinquity (which, in itself, could be described as 'detached' at best). This strange relationship, a friendship, was more than I could comprehend. More than I've ever shared with another breathing human. For the first time, someone was both willing and able to call me their friend. You did._

_Reciprocating was always the problem. As is, without modification, you accepted me. What was I to do in turn for your kindness? I'm not kind, I'm not particularly pleasant, what else could I do? Save you from something that could easily be initially pinned as my fault, pay for food once and a while, work as a walking concert, play less while you're sleeping, maybe not put that head in the fridge? I felt so spoiled, it all was so one-sided._

_So I never told you more, of my past, of anything more than the present, none of these thoughts, let alone my pending death. I couldn't bring myself to bother you more; I couldn't tell you though I want to. You called me your friend. Would you have if you learned of my misguided rebellion, my secrecy? I know I trust you. I'm sure you'd just take it all just fine and we'd continue along this eccentric routine of ours. But there was always this shadow of a doubt in my mind, fearing rejection. I couldn't bring myself to lose something I had already grown so desperately attached to, this new level of intimacy enough to satiate me. We were enough, the present was fine enough for us._

_Then I learned of my fate. This mere doubt transmogrified into a miserable excuse, that I couldn't tell you anymore now. I couldn't let you get any closer to me than you already were. It wouldn't have been fair, our getting closer only for me to die. You would be sad, and I couldn't do that to you for the sake of my own selfish desires. If I left it as is, you could move into the rest of your life with ease._

_But I don't want to think about that. Somewhere, I still want you to miss me; I want you to have cared...I want you have thought I meant as much to you as you did to me. If our roles were reversed, I don't quite know what I'd do afterwards. I don't know if I could simply continue on with my life, if I could trust any closeness. Would I feel betrayed? Would I revert into my old ways? I don't know, John. I'm glad it's me and not you. I don't know what I'd do, what I could do. Ha, I don't know. I'm so uncertain, so uneasy, so awkward and dependent...You're stronger than I am, John, you can move on. If you did miss me, I would want you to get on with your life. Live happier, easier than the times I forced you to endure, and I suppose I could be happy. Though I'm not with you, that I absolutely abhor the thought, I can picture you with a temperate wife, a few smiling children while you grinned like a madman. Though it upsets me, that I know you'd do far better without me, I'm happy that you can smile without me there. I suppose if my death eventually yields your happiness, I could accept that._

_So I'm stuck here, writing this stupid letter like some sort of emotional teenage girl, unable to tell you a thing. I really am a fool, an uncertain fool, too scared to progress into an unknown._

Rolling onto his side, John kept his eyes transfixed on the letter. He couldn't comprehend it. Sherlock uncertain, unable to get closer to him because he couldn't ruin what he already thought a good thing? That they couldn't be better friends though they could have. How selfless he felt, how much he actually cared. _I'm sorry, Sherlock, I shouldn't have said that earlier. It just wasn't true. It wasn't true at all. You did care. Oh God, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I was just upset. And you didn't have to give me anything...You gave me my life back, Sherlock. I owe you so much. The only thing I could have wanted would be more time...But I guess we couldn't do anything about that...I'm sorry._ Decreasing the letter back along its initial trifold, he slid it back into the envelop and held the bundle to his chest. He couldn't pull Sherlock into his arms anymore, couldn't quash any of these doubts he had and set right his unease.

Unable to cry anymore, John curled into the letters on his place on the couch and stared at the floor, mentally noting the various burns and scratches his roommate had left with it. Heartbroken, he choked a dry sob back down his sore throat, body wracking in tremors. _Please, Sherlock, just a miracle. Let this all be a horrid dream. Come home, wake me up with your playing, greet me with mangled body parts in the fridge, just please. Please don't be dead. It's so lonely here in the flat. Just please, Sherlock. Just for me...Please...I don't know what to do with myself anymore. _Completely exhausted, John fell into a much-needed slumber.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_"Sherlock, what about this?" John asked as he perused the local paper, positive that the story he was reading was at least a seven._

_Walking behind the doctor, who was situated in his favorite armchair, Sherlock leaned over and slowly read the article. "At least an eight," the detective amended with a strange slowness._

_When John turned to face the younger man, he was shocked to see him pale with a crinkling brow and a deep-seated frown. "Are you alright?"_

_"Yeah, le's go," Sherlock urged, starting for the door with a stagger._

_Alerted by the slur, John grabbed Sherlock's hand. "No, you're cold, Sherlock, sit down, please." Shaking his head, the detective refused and continued trudging for the door. "Sherlock, you're not going anywhere. Sit down." With less force than he would have expected, he managed to pull his friend over and sit him on the couch. "I need you to tell me what's wrong, Sherlock. I can't help if you won't tell me," he begged, trying to catch Sherlock's attention as he stared at the floor with a sullen gaze._

You can't help, John. Not anymore you can't._ Coughing, Sherlock tried to ease some of the fluid from his lungs to no avail._

_John sat down next to him and rubbed the younger man's back as he wheezed for air. Once he stopped, Sherlock gasped and trembled, feeling John's eyes pierce through him. He knew. "Sherlock," John started. "Please. I know you've been hiding something lately..."_

_Shivering, Sherlock clung onto his pants and stared at the floor, trying to concentrate on the individual scratches and scuffs in the dull wood. He had surely caused most of them, now what was it he had done? He had to remember; he wasn't going to lose himself now._

_John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders in a loose hug without a word, no heart to ask him further questions. A few tears sliding down his face, the detective turned to his only friend and frowned. This wouldn't do. Sherlock curled into John's chest and wrapped both arms around the older man."I'm not ready," he muttered._

_Confused, John returned, "For what?"_

_"To die," he returned softly, voice scarce but a whisper. Lanky fingers clinging to the back on John's jumper, Sherlock felt as the tears continued to flow. There was no going back on this. Now was the time to face his fears._

_"To die?" John parroted, unable to digest the two words. _Sherlock's dying?

_With a deep breath, Sherlock reaffirmed, "I'm dying, John."_

_Wrapping both arms around his friend, John squeezed, his own lip starting to quiver as he absorbed the news. "Oh God..." _Sherlock...he can't die. He just can't._ "Of w-what?" he questioned, right hand cupping the back of Sherlock's head, scruffling his black curls as he pulled him in closer._

_"Congestive heart failure," he replied, comforted slightly be the closeness._

_"No transplants? Mycroft?" Knowing he was grasping at straws, John could feel as they slipped through his fingers. _Just like...Just like him. He'll be gone.

_Sherlock took another breath. "He knows, and nothing...He can bend everything but medicine."_

_"How long?" John asked, swallowing. How long until he could no longer hold this man in his arms? How long until he was gone for good?_

_"I don't know. Soon, probably," he returned grimly. "I guess this is it."_

_Pulling his flatmate in closer, John was at a loss for words as he felt the man's hot tears permeate his thick jumper. He had seen plenty of death in his life, but he had always assumed Sherlock some sort of universal constant. Sherlock isn't the type to die, even if you killed him. He was always going to be there. For as eccentric and unpredictable as he was, Sherlock was the only constant in the doctor's life, the one person that pulled him afloat after returning from the war. The best person he had ever met, the only to make him feel so alive._

_Reality hitting him, John felt as tears pricked up in his eyes as well. As emotions cluttered his mind, he asked, "Is...is there anything I can do?" He had to try, maybe there was something. Something to ease the younger man's worry._

_Sherlock took several deep breaths and calmed down a bit more. "Can we stay like this awhile?"_

_"Of course, Sherlock," John breathed as he shed his first tears._

**End of Chapter 3**

**A/n: I really need to stop making myself cry. Seriously, I've just been waiting to have someone barge through my door only to see me sitting on my floor with my laptop just ;;;~;;;. Anyhow, now that you've read, please review! Make my tears worth it! Haha, um, well, 'till next time!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/n: Um, well here it is! I would like to thank my lovely reviewers, and I hope you are happy (well, actually, that's rather poor word choice) with this next installment. If you're waiting for me to update Absence, I promise it'll be up in the week. I'm getting a bit of the yips writing it, seeing it wind down before my eyes. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine (still)!**

**Letters for You**

**Chapter 4 **

_Television running blank noise, barely audible, the often-forgotten machine droned on, serving only to light the room in an eerie glow. Nearly midnight, neither could bring themselves to sleep, knowing full well that the end was somewhere near. He was tired, but he knew he couldn't sleep. Just one more minute, one more anything; one more minute with John. _

_Together, the two sat on the couch in silence as the news hummed in the background. Turning to face his younger friend, John managed a weak smile before he took Sherlock's hand in his own. The detective returned the same sullen smile and squeezed his companion's hand. He was still alive. Biting his lip, apprehensive over what's to come, John stroked Sherlock's icy hand as the bit of affection he felt he could show. This was going to hurt, rip a gaping hole in his soul, his heart, but he couldn't cry yet. John had to be there for him; he had to stay strong. He could always fall apart later, when it's too late._

_A clock in the flat struck midnight, and Sherlock let out a single chuckle. He had lived through the whole day, much more than he expected. With a sinking feeling in his chest, the detective knew that he wouldn't be fortunate enough to have another. Dying in daylight was a novel enough concept. _

_As the clock ticked away the seconds of his life, Sherlock put his weight against his only friend, head on his shoulder while still maintaining his grip on his hand. With a single squeeze, the younger man reaffirmed his strength, his liveliness, the sheer fact that he wasn't dead yet, that he clung to life as much as he did John's warm, calloused hand._

_For minutes, the two sat composed in a silent understanding, the foreboding clock's ticking amplified and drummed in their heads. Soon, they both knew. With his free hand, John ran his fingers through the younger man's hair, carefully tracing his scalp. "We had a good run," the doctor murmured, combating the clock's noise monopoly.  
_

_Completely relaxed against John, Sherlock nodded and smiled, recalling all the wonderfully exciting moments they had had with one another. They had had a good run, a fantastic run even. _

_"I'm going to miss it," John breathed just above a whisper._

_Sherlock squeezed the doctor's hand once more. He would, too. __Exhaling a shallow breath, the detective felt the strength leave his body. Immediately, John realised that Sherlock's hand had grow limp in his own, and he couldn't help but squeeze it in turn, trying to compensate for the listless appendage as if he could give some of his strength, his life, to the younger man._

_Sliding onto John's lap, Sherlock gazed up at the only man he had always unconditionally loved, grinning at the sight. There was no place he'd rather be at this moment in time, the last thing he saw in this existence. This was it._

_Tears sliding down his face, John watched Sherlock's every move. He wasn't ready for him to die yet; he had so much more to say, so much more to do. As he clutched onto the younger man's hand in his own insecurity, Sherlock wiggled his fingers in an attempt to assure it would be alright. _

_This was the end, and they both knew it. If he were to say anything, now would be the time. Before John could utter a single word of his appreciation, his love, Sherlock reached for John's face and wiped away the tears with his thumb. Caressing the side of the doctor's face with his lanky fingers, Sherlock paused for a moment on John's lips. He didn't want to spoil this moment with words that he already knew. A silent understanding._

_Hand falling limply to his own chest, Sherlock smiled as he saw John's face, closing his eyes for the the final time. _

_"Sherlock," the doctor moaned, pain echoing in his voice. Tears now cascading down his face, John felt for pulse only to find a weak one still beating. He still had some time. He had to say it now. Gathering the younger man up, the doctor pulled him up against his own sobbing chest. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't, I can't anymore. I have to say it now. I-I don't even know if you'll hear me. I hope you will. No matter how much...We've been through so much, in this year. You changed me, Sherlock. I was so alone, and you saved me. I owe you so much. So much more than I could ever give. No matter what anyone says, you were the best man I've ever known...Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for being in my life. Thank you for living." Feeling for a pulse, John felt the weak one turn to nothing, nothing but a body left in his arms. _

_Choking back a sob, John whined, "Sherlock..." Clutching what was left of his best friend, the doctor cried, too distraught to distinguish a single element in the flurry of his emotions. Why Sherlock? Why now? Why did he have to leave him? What was he supposed to do now, without him here? He needed him, he loved him. How was he supposed to cope? Where does he go now? How can he tell anyone else? Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly...the world. What was he to say about Sherlock? How?_

_Too confused to think straight anymore, John sobbed in sheer sadness. He was alone, so terribly alone, in a cluttered flat with the mumbling telly and a ticking clock, holding the body of the most important person in his life. How could time just continue on when his world seemed to end?_

_Gripping Sherlock's body, fingers digging into the back of his pajama top, John rocked back and forth on the couch. He wasn't read to let go yet. Kissing the younger man's temple, he crooned nothings, mere incoherences, to the lifeless form. As he recalled all the times together, all their fun, John threw himself into a deeper pit of despair. Those times were over and had surely ended. There was no going back, a chapter complete in his life, and his heart had never felt so empty. It was worse than leaving his military life, and the doctor hadn't the slightest as to what to do with himself now. _

_After what seemed like an eternity of crying and dry sobs, John carefully laid the body on the couch. Absentmindedly, he took Sherlock's phone from the table and sat on the floor next to its owner's remains. After a quick search, he located Mycroft's number and stared at it. He had to call him; he was the man's elder brother after all. Mussing with Sherlock's curls, John prepared himself before dialing. _

_Calling Mycroft meant saying goodbye to Sherlock forever, and as much as part of him screamed that no, you can keep him just a little while longer, John refused. This was unhealthy; he had to call. Numbly, John pressed the talk button and counted the rings. What if he didn't answer? What would he do then? On the last ring, Mycroft's concerned voice erupted from the other line, "Sherlock?"_

_Stunned, John realised that he had grabbed Sherlock's phone without a second thought. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked, tone more anxious than before._

_"He's dead, Mycroft," John confessed, swiping a stray curl back away from Sherlock's face to get another look at him._

_"John?" Mycroft returned with disbelief. "Oh, God. I'll be right over."_

**End of Chapter 4**

**A/n: Well, that's it! Um, yeah. Please review (happy writers write sad things faster), and join me next time with a Mycroft chapter!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/n: Hello again! Sorry it's been a LONG while, but I've taken the time to finish my other story "My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting". So now that I'm on my summer vacation and I've currently no other stories to fuss about, expect regular updates! Yay. I'd like to thank all my subscribers and reviewers. You guys are awesome. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, no nothing! **

**Letters for You**

**Chapter 5 **

Today is Sherlock's funeral, _Mycroft mentally stated as he drove towards the cemetery, still trying to wrap his mind around it. Even though John had called him, that he had gone all the way to their flat in the middle of the night, that he had seen his brother's body listless on the couch, he still couldn't accept it. In the last few days, he subconsciously found himself messaging Anthea to give him a status check on his brother, only to be hit once again with the harsh reality. _

_He was in a daze, leaving his work unfinished, mind adrift. Numbly, he tried to cope with his day, busying himself with work to no avail. Mycroft couldn't concentrate, and he knew he would do nothing but suffer for it. As if he weren't enough already. Large droplets of water splattered on his windshield, and he turned on his wipers. _Rain, too. Fantastic.

_Though the "humble government worker" had prepared himself for his younger brother's inevitable demise, his death hit him harder than he had anticipated. His "preparations" did him just as well as a sheet of paper against a bullet. It just wasn't enough. His baby brother, the very one he'd spent his life looking after, died before he did, still in his thirties. Such a shame. _

_No matter how much he knew it was true, there was still some part of Mycroft that screamed that this couldn't possibly be right. Sherlock couldn't be dead. After all, he promised...He promised that he would call first. To say goodbye. "Damn it," he cursed himself. Why couldn't he have called? Taken that first step? Why had he made it a point to avoid his little brother after receiving the diagnosis? Now it was too late._

_As he veered out of his lane, a car honked and sped past, ignoring the risk of hydroplaning to get away from Mycroft's irresponsible driving. Snapped back into reality, Mycroft jumped slightly, focusing on the road before him. This was getting out of hand. If only he hadn't cared, if only he had taken his own advice._

_But how could he not care? How could he just cast away any of the emotion, the fondness, he held for his brother after thirty-odd long years? He could still remember when his mother told him at the age of six and a half that he was going to be a big brother, that he would have to take care of his little sibling. How excited he had been. A little brother, he marveled, he could protect him, take care of him; and in turn, his brother would look up to him, idolize him. His little brother wouldn't have to feel lonely in this large house like he had, swimming in an endless pool of maids and tutors. Mycroft chuckled to himself, recalling all those sleepless nights he'd spent wondering just what his brother would look like, just how he would act, and how awesome an elder sibling he would be, temporarily satisfied that he knew his name: Sherlock._

_Then there was his father's business trip, the last time he had seen his father. He remembered his father taking him aside by the shoulder, kneeling down to his height, looking him dead in the eyes, and telling him that he was going to have to fill his shoes while he was gone, that he was going to have to be the man of the house. He was going to have to take care of his mother and his little brother. With a smile and a good hair scruffle, he departed, and Mycroft remembered how he held himself higher, how he happily bathed himself in this new responsibility. _

_Of course, being all of six-and-a-half, Mycroft took the matter seriously, and watched as his mother's stomach grew larger and larger until he thought she would pop (little did he know how babies were actually born). And then they received news of his father's death, a terrorist they said. Though he didn't fully understand, he knew that his father wouldn't ever be coming back and that "Daddy dying" crushed his mother. But he couldn't cry, he couldn't be sad; he had to be strong. For Mummy. He remembered all the silly ways he attempted to distract her from her pain, how desperately he wished for her to be happy again, reminding her that she still had to take care of his brother until he came out. If anything, don't be sad. For Sherlock, Mummy._

_He remembered how she smiled at him every time, silently seeming to agree as she gingerly caressed her wide belly. But later in life, Mycroft realised how this was nothing more than a facade of strength on her part, giving her just enough energy to birth Sherlock. Because no matter how much se reminded herself that she had another son to raise, she couldn't get over the fact that she had nothing more than a broken, burnt wristwatch as the final remains of her husband. _

_But Mycroft, just a child, hadn't noticed her deep-seated, concealed depression, and couldn't have felt any happier upon Sherlock's arrival into the family. Even though he had lost his father, he had gained Sherlock, a whole new responsibility unto itself. Much to his future dismay, Mycroft devoted all of his free time to Sherlock, hardly noticing as his mother became a withered recluse in her own home, unable to pick herself back up again after her husband's death._

_He loved the giggling child, who seemed so fair, his thick, curly dark hair mussing about his face. Mycroft thought the boy was so pure, and that very fact stirred this instinct inside him that made him want to protect the child, to make sure no harm ever came his way, even if it went so far as to sending away the nursemaids. _

_So Sherlock grew up happy, smiling with a precious brightness in his eyes he didn't want to sully. Mycroft soon realised how clever the boy was, his knack for recognising and remembering the minutest of details was extraordinary. But that was no surprise, he was his brother after all. Of course he'd be smart. By the time the boy had grown into an inquisitive, wide-eyed toddler, roaming around for the nearest adventure, preparing himself for asking the latest question with his limited (but ever-expanding) vocabulary, it was evident that he looked like his mother. Though this pleased Mycroft, his mother couldn't help but be the contrary. She had wanted Sherlock to look just like his father, not like her own father like Mycroft had; she wanted one of her children to bear semblance to the man that she had lost._

_Even though he could never prove it, Mycroft felt that she never did entirely like Sherlock, oftentimes passing him off to the servants, avoiding spending time with him unlike his own childhood. She was cold to her younger son, but that just made the young child want her attention all the more. Sherlock would just toddle after her, trying to get her attention, any sort of approval, to no avail. Oh, how he'd cry when she shut the door behind her, leaving him behind like a lonesome puppy, leaving Mycroft to scoop him up and console him. _

_His mother's attitude towards the younger child upset Mycroft, and he felt like he had to compensate for their mother's love. He would just have to make sure to take even better care of him, to make sure he was happy. And before long, it was Mycroft Sherlock ran to when he was upset. In a twisted way, it made the elder brother happy; Sherlock didn't need anyone else._

_As the boys continued to grow, so did the distance between the two siblings. The younger disparaged the fact that his brother hovered over him, denying him the freedom he desperately wanted. Going outside was so much a stretch that Sherlock began sneaking out into the yard, and to his later regret, Mycroft reacted zealously in response to the young child's attempt at independence._

_The child received more freedom as his brother moved to university for the year, only to lose it promptly upon his mother's death. This was Mycroft's greatest regret. Why couldn't he have just come home for a holiday? Why couldn't he have noticed that something was wrong? At the end of the year, the nineteen-year-old elder returned home for the summer, only to find Sherlock emaciated, insipidity filling his once-lively eyes. One of the servants had locked him in his room this whole time, barring the windows, bolting the door, feeding him when she felt like it. He only had his violin and the hundreds of books that littered his shelves. With practice, he learned that he could manage just on liquids (particularly the tap from his bathroom sink) for several days at a time, and the more intensely he thought, the more unlikely he was to notice even his hunger._

_Livid, Mycroft immediately fired the entirety of the staff, making sure that each and every one of them wouldn't find a job anywhere anytime soon. Now he was left alone with his resentful brother in a large, lonely manor. The elder couldn't find the words to apologize, to set things right, everything he attempted falling on disinterested ears. It wasn't until later in his life that Mycroft realised that his brother hated him for being no better than the crazy governess. __Sherlock had fallen right into fire, being coddled and protected more than ever, his elder brother more concerned about his well-being than before. _

_He cared too much, and Sherlock started squirming away from him, running far and fast at every opportunity. All he wanted was a sliver of freedom, and at every turn, he was denied. By Sherlock's teenage years, he started running away, finding himself caught amongst the dangerous world from which his brother had desperately tried to shield him. No matter how much Mycroft tried to reel in his brother, Sherlock would counter, occasionally (if at all) coming home completely strung out, drunk, occasionally beaten._

_But this was all his fault, he came to realise. Sherlock had a classic rebellion away from the sheltering tendencies of his parental figure, and Mycroft had only made matters worse. He let it go on long enough for Sherlock to cut his life short, and no matter his power, his influence, he couldn't save his brother. Always letting him down when he needed the most help, what a fantastic brother. _

_Sighing, Mycroft pulled into the cemetery's parking lot and turned off his car, taking a moment to calm himself in preparation. He didn't want to do this; it was too final. Escaping from this very thought was precisely why he avoided calling his little brother, why he avoided visiting him. He couldn't simply run away forever, now could he? Well, he could; he could just drive home and that would be that. No, this was his last chance._

**End of Chapter 5**

**A/n: Sorry if this may not be the best of all chapter endings, but this is a long chapter that really needed some chunking. On a side note: If anyone is looking for a no-lifing forum roleplayer for an original content two-man campaign, please message me, and I'm sure we can come up with something! Anyhow, please review 'n subscribe 'n stuff! 'Till next time!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/n: Hello again! Thank you all for coming this far! I'm thinking this story should be 13 chapters total with these shorty chapters. Anyhow~**

**Letters for You**

**Chapter 6**

_Stepping out of his car, Mycroft looked up and popped open his umbrella, recently polished shoes splashing in the puddle that had formed before his arrival. Careful of the other puddles and the wet splotches of grass that could surely sink a shoe, he followed along to the sidewalk into the church's small chapel, where he arranged for his brother's wake to be held. Though it had caused chaos in the last few days, Mycroft was thankful that the media was left in the dark for the time being. This needed to be a private affair, filled with the few people that Sherlock genuinely chose to share his life, and he wouldn't allow ravenous scavengers to sully the last time he would ever see his baby brother's face. Yes, he would save that for a few days to have it announced officially, and that would be that._

_Under the covered porch, Mycroft retracted his umbrella and tapped its metal tip against the concrete a few times with a slight twirl to be rid of the excess water. Satisfied that he wouldn't be flooding the building's interior, he opened the heavy, weather-worn door and stepped inside to the modest church. Immediately as he entered, he was greeted by the scent of candles and a begrudgingly-consented, framed photograph of Sherlock from the small table, organ music lightly filling the room. Throat tightening, Mycroft managed to greet the pastor before slipping into the room where his brother's body lay._

_Upon entry, he found John down the center aisle, standing before his brother's casket. Not wanting to ruin John's last farewells, Mycroft slid into the last pew along the right side. Eyes skimming the rest of the empty pews, he found Mrs. Hudson dutifully managing her own in a solemn sadness on the left slide, sitting as far from the aisle she could manage with the slight expectation that there might be more people to join her._

_Returning his gaze to John, Mycroft remarked upon the slouch in his back alone. He seemed to want to climb into the casket himself, like he had no other reason to exist. Swallowing back a touch of sadness, he recalled John's face as he arrived at the flat, so completely devoid of life. From what he could tell, he knew that Sherlock had kept John busy after his time spent in the war. They both thrived off the excitement, becoming an inseparable pair, and then this happened. Just when Sherlock had finally made a friend._

_With a final pat to his friend's chest, John turned and weakly smiled at Mycroft. His eyes were sullen, sunken into his face by the dark bags, his eyelids red and puffy from what was probably spurts of crying. To the government worker, John seemed numb, like he couldn't cry anymore, like he didn't know what to feel anymore; he was completely drained._

_Standing, Mycroft traversed the aisle, giving John a pat on the shoulder before the other man returned to his place next to Mrs. Hudson. Now standing before his brother's coffin, Mycroft took in everything he could. The makeup the funeral home had prepared restored some of Sherlock's healthy complexion, a color he hadn't seen him have for months. His dark curls still hung around his face, which was slightly bloated from the gaseous buildup. A smile graced Sherlock's mouth, and Mycroft knew that it hadn't been modified too much. He died just where he wanted to: with John. No wonder he was happy._

_Tears pricking his eyes, Mycroft felt his mouth waver into a deep frown. His baby brother was really dead. Releasing a shuddering breath he hadn't realised he held, he straightened Sherlock's vest as he tried to retain his composure. A tear slid down his face, and Mycroft sniffled. He was a horrible brother, and this was his fault. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft mumbled, thankful that the organ would drown out his words. "You know I tried right? That I loved you? I thought it went unsaid..." he continued, tears openly falling. He really shouldn't have cared; he should have taken his own advice. Maybe Sherlock would have been better off had he followed suit with his mother's own disinterest. "Goodbye, little brother..."_

_Turning fast, Mycroft averted his eyes from the other two in the room. He wasn't supposed to care, let alone cry. He couldn't face John. He wasn't ready to say that it was his own controlling behavior that drove Sherlock to what killed him. He wasn't ready to admit that he was partially at fault for all of this, for ripping away John's best friend. Ashamed, guilty, Mycroft shuddered. Though he had most certainly caused this, he couldn't even fix it either; he was totally useless. Some brother he was._

_Mycroft jumped when he heard another set of footsteps enter the room. Turning his head away further, he wiped away at his eyes and listened for the new entrant's gait. Heels, a woman. Molly. Of course. She was the only woman left that would probably even bother attending Sherlock's funeral. As she made her way past him, Mycroft looked up and watched her approach his brother. Upon catching his visage, the poor girl started sniffling, tears flowing down her face. Molly turned to John and Mrs. Hudson, hoping that they could comfort her, explain a little better just what had happened. Sherlock hadn't told a soul save John (his own knowing a mere circumstance), and his death would surely shake the world just as it has his own relations. It had been unexpected, an unpleasant surprise. _

_Amidst Molly's increasing sobs, Lestrade entered the chapel and walked down the aisle, Mycroft's eyes following him the entirety of the way. When he reached the casket, the detective inspector simply sighed and shook his head. Sitting next to the government worker, Lestrade tried to make small talk, and Mycroft returned blandly. None of this was important, just something to pass the time, something to distract him from the sinking feeling in his gut._

_Before long, the minister came in and spoke a few brief words before handing it over to John, who delivered a eulogy that Mycroft only half paid any attention. Just by his word choice alone, the elder brother knew John had been able to say his farewells. Damning himself, Mycroft listlessly sat through the rest until his services as a pallbearer were required. _

_Along with a few of the ministers, the three men in attendance carried Sherlock's casket to the grave site, positioning it for interment. The small party watched as the final ceremony was read and the coffin slowly made its way into the depth of its plot. Before long, dirt was unceremoniously shoveled onto Sherlock's casket, and the five waited until the very end._

_With few words, they departed ways, a bitter taste in their mouths. Such a simple, small gathering for such a brilliant man's final farewell. It just didn't sit quite right. _

**End of Chapter 6**

**A/n: ...Someone please save me from my shipping. Mystrade was one of the few ships I didn't...Nevermind. Anyway...You know what to do! Please follow and review and things! Even for the short chapter, for distraught Mycroft perhaps? 'Till next time guys...when Mycroft gets his letter! **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/n: First off, I'd like to thank all my lovely reviewers and subscribers. You guys are fantastic. Anyhow~ Here we go! As a general disclaimer, you might want tissues if you are one to cry.**

**Letters for You**

**Chapter 7 **

_Collecting the day's mail, Mycroft sorted through the mess, categorizing it based on its interests. Amidst the stack, he found a peculiar one, handwritten by a familiar scrawl. Eyes darting to the return address, he found Sherlock's name scratched in the corner, the actual address returning to his lawyer's office. Sliding into his desk chair, Mycroft abandoned all of the other articles, caught by the existence of such a parcel._

_He studied every aspect of the letter, appreciating its thickness. Three days after burying Sherlock, and he's getting post from him. Sherlock's last words to him. Hands shaking, Mycroft slid his fingers along the edges of the envelope. Though Sherlock had never (past the age of thirty) blamed his problems on his older brother, Mycroft couldn't help but consider that this letter might be just that. He didn't know if he could handle Sherlock confirming his own self-deprecation. _

_Hands still shaking, he grabbed his letter opener and cleanly tore the envelope, exposing several white pages, folded in uneven thirds. As he snatched up the contents, Mycroft took a deep breath. He had to read this, even if Sherlock was going to blame him for everything. They were his last words, and the least he owed him was to hear them out. Carefully, he unfolded the sheets and found himself on the first page._

Mycroft-

Hello, brother. It's been a month since we last properly conversed, and I don't know if we'll have another opportunity to talk face to face...I know I said I would call, but I don't think I can bring myself to do so...I don't even know what to say when we hang up. Would we treat it like we'd see each other again, like everything was as it should be? Or would we simply abruptly end the call to not bother with farewells at all? I don't want to properly end it. I don't want to say our farewells like it's going to be the last time, which is why I am writing these instead. I don't want to 'die' before I'm dead.

Too sentimental, you're probably thinking. "Caring is not an advantage" you always used to lecture. But we both know it's your own personal experience that led you to this conclusion.

For ages it seems, I did nothing but despise you. One way or another it seemed you were trying to ruin my life, or as I often thought, a blithering mess that didn't know what to do with himself. I remember that governess...I'm sure you do as well. How she just left me in my room the whole time? I remember sitting there after I'd read everything I had, cursing you for not coming home. Being stuck in there made me believe that no matter how domineering you were, you were still better. I was angry that you had left me all alone to her, for how long you had abandoned me, frustrated at how reliant I was on you.

And then you came home for holiday. Came home and saved the day, it seemed. I thought things would be better, now that you had fired the entirety of the staff. But you were smothering, more protective that you had ever been. I had to escape. I'm sure you remember (with probably great frustration) all the times I ran into the yard, sometimes making it further into the neighborhood. You remember that, Mycroft? The first time I got past the yard, how you called the police, deathly frightened that I had been kidnapped or something of the sort? You had just started your job with the government, hadn't yet felt the need to save face. You remember how quickly after they put out the call that an officer stumbled across me in a convenience shop as he was buying coffee? Remember how I came home, guiltily holding a full bag of candy (purchased from the few notes I'd nicked from your wallet), how the officer badgered you for calling over something so minor.

I still recall that day quite well. How you sat me down and forbade me from doing that ever again (forbid you ever mention it's because you were worried out of your mind - though it always seemed to go unsaid), and then with a deadpan serious face, you demanded that I give you at least half of my Crunchie bar! You haven't a clue how surprised I was. Here I was, sitting here with a bag of candy on my lap, waiting for you to just take it away for causing such a fuss as you lectured me, and your consequence? Share. I was so dumbstruck that I just rummaged around in the bag and handed you the thing. You outright smirked at the chocolate bar, mumbling something about how much you loved these stupid things. No wonder why there was never any candy at home! I smelled it and there was nothing but wrappers occasionally filling your pockets.

You broke it in half and gave me the bit without the wrapper, not wanting to get your own fingers sticky. I still find it funny how fickle you are about that, how you'd wince at the things I found no bother in touching. But I still remember just looking at you, still shocked that you were actually smiling at something, wondering just how much more trouble I would be in had I not brought any candy.

And we just talked. You continued on and on about which ones were your favorites, and I commented on each type as I tried it. You warned me to not be like you, constantly conscious of your weight, but you were a bit shocked that I'd never had any of this before. I think you started to realize how sheltered I had been, not even able to try such a basic chocolate bar that you yourself oftentimes had too much of. It was one of the few times I had fun at home, sitting on that awful, antique, floral couch that gaudily took up common room space, eating candy, and talking to you about seemingly nothing.

_Mycroft smiled, reminiscing. His brother was so young back then, legs unable to so much as touch the ground from his place on Mummy's horrid sofa. How he smiled and grimaced with each variety. Sherlock always was expressive as a child. That was probably one of their better evenings with one another, not counting those times in Sherlock's early childhood. The ones where he'd run about the manor with a wooden sword, occasionally whacking his elder brother from behind an eyepatch, disclaiming that he was anyone but a pirate. Occasionally he found his little brother's face covered in grease paint (from an enthusiastic attempt at giving himself a beard) with a red pillowcase tied around his waist, which kept his baggy shirt (courtesy of Mycroft's closet) at a manageable length. _

_Always so full of life as a child, so playful, so adventurous. So happy. Sighing, Mycroft realised that he knew the end of this childhood innocence and continued reading, wishing that the story were somehow different despite it being set in stone._

But that day was better than it may have seemed to you. Just after I had left, I found a group of children, carelessly strolling, a bunch of sweets filling their pockets. I approached them to ask just what it was they were eating. The laughed, how could someone my age not know what all these sweets were? They harangued me for my attire (we both know how formal my wardrobe was), my appearance (the frail, gangly, feminine child I was), teasing me for being some "younger master". All I had wanted was to make some friends that were my age, but I couldn't stop myself. I shot back insults that apparently hit the mark, and they shoved me down in the street, storming off as they shouted all sorts of belittling slights. It hurt, and I couldn't quite comprehend what it was about me that had made them dislike me right from the start. I looked down at myself, noticing how different my clothes were from theirs. How little I knew about the things they liked.

So I got up and dusted myself off. As I followed along the street (in the opposite direction of those other children), I tried to avoid anything that attracted any attention. I was going to buy candy. Maybe then I would understand just a little bit better. Maybe I could fit in? Even though I hadn't the slightest clue as to where I was going, I made sure to walk with determination. Eventually, I found a small convenience store, and I popped inside. While making our purchases, that officer dropped me back home after assessing just who I was.

But after that conversation, I felt like I wasn't alone in the house. I could be like you, Mycroft. I would have you and no one else in my life, no matter what others thought of me it didn't matter. You understood, or at least you seemed to. I figured after that it wouldn't be so bad after that, that this new candy-loving Mycroft was on my side. I hoped that he would understand how much I valued my freedom, how confining his other half had been. But he hadn't. My hopes were wasted, and you were as suffocating as ever. You completely betrayed my childish confidence. Only now you would occasionally toss me a bar of something sugary. I remember looking at each and every one of them before discarding them uneaten into the bottom drawer of my desk. But I'm sure you discovered that when you started doing drug sweeps. Did you ever make that connection, brother?

_He had. The day he found out his brother had started with drugs, he searched his room. The drawers were the first place he checked, and he recalled that numb feeling he felt upon finding the full sugary stash. After catching an expiration date on one, Mycroft realised that Sherlock had thrown every single one in this drawer, and that's when it hit him: Sherlock never wanted candy. He felt sick. Why hadn't he noticed before? Before it got this bad? A pang of guilt coursing through him, Mycroft read on. _

You were quite possibly the only person who cared for my existence, but I didn't want to rot away under your oppression. As you climbed the government ladder, I found myself alone in the house, which was filled with nothing more than gossiping staff (that you carefully interviewed and hired) and disdainful tutors (that I made certain to drive off with haste). I was lonely, Mycroft. So terribly bored at home, nothing left there to stimulate me. Other humans, whom I had found remarkably interesting to watch and observe, didn't warm to the fondness I had conducted of them. Oftentimes, on my adventures out, people would harass and ostracize me for an off comment. My intelligence, paired with my abrasiveness and my complete and utter ineptitude at so much as conversing with another human, drove people away. They'd spit, "Piss off!" after I'd struck a nerve, bark all sorts of obscenities, chalked with harsh things. Every now and then I'd find myself in a physical altercation. Forget finding someone that cared for or understood me, finding someone to so much as tolerate me was more than a chore. I didn't have friends, and I most certainly could never hope to find any.

So I slipped out of the house as a teenager. No one could stand me. Remember that night I had stumbled in battered and bruised? How I'd been hit so hard up the side of my head a molar had cracked? My ribs were no better (as expected of a good pair of steel-toed boots), and I was barely recognisable behind my swelling bruises. You fussed, and in a sick way, I enjoyed ever last moment of it. I had wanted your attention, your genuine care, but at the same time, I wanted you gone; I didn't want you hovering over me. I just wanted my freedom. Contradictory. I had too much attention, but none of it was quite the right type. You thought you were doing what was best for me when you hadn't bothered taking my own interests into consideration...

But like clockwork, when I had mostly healed, you headed back off to work, leaving me bored, so terribly alone. I left again, only to find that along with my crown, you had included a tracking device. My trust in you plummeted to an all-time low. I hadn't done more (before that night) than leave, and you track me? Every part of me screamed that you were no longer my brother, that you were nothing but a part of the British government. You didn't want your little brother to sully your good name. I hated you for your inconsistency. Could you make up your mind? Did you care for me because I was the only family you had left or because I could potential ruin you with scandal? You never could just pick one, never entirely cold nor caring with me. I felt like I would have been better off with just one. I was childish. You remember that night I came home, when I stubbornly ripped the thing out in front of you? I don't know how you could possibly forget that one. That hurt. For us both, I'm sure. I can barely remember what I said I was so off my ass, but I remember it was far from kind.

So I ran away, thinking there was nothing else to do. I didn't want to be stifled, so stuck. The more and more time I spent in the outside world, the more thoughts cluttered my mind, the faster I learned. My observations were limitless, and they drove me mad, barraging my senses mercilessly. By comparison to my childhood, this level of stimulation in a mere moment was probably more than some of my eventful years. My violin could only clear my thoughts for so long, my mental release lasting only as long as I could possibly play. I couldn't get it to stop. Thanks to you, I was never without money, and one day I was offered cocaine, my chance at oblivion.

Neither of us would care to remember those days, how disgusting and repulsive I had made myself on impulse, not knowing that this shell shock would subside had I given it the chance...Is it sad, however, that I think people preferred me strung out, a vomiting mass on an already-dirtied floor? I was degrees and realms more "normal" drugged than I was vertical and conversing. And then that first attack struck. You found me, shoved me in rehab, and I hated you for it. I saw your efforts as selfish, like for whatever reason, this wasn't being done in my best interests. How dare you interrupt my suicidal plight. When you told me I was going to destroy myself, I took it as a challenge. So what if I destroyed myself? Even though I felt sick on narcotics, anything was better than simply existing. Maybe one day I'd overdose and that would be that.

I escaped, and I continued on my destructive path until a massive attack hit. I was caught in this gut-wrenching lucidity, everything was so frighteningly clear. I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to let myself die like this. So I let you throw me into rehab, this time for good. Just long enough to shake myself of withdrawals. You set me up working with Lestrade and Molly at the morgue, and I thought I had finally found my calling. It gave me that rush I had missed (though it hadn't entirely extinguished my urge to relapse).

I wasn't a child anymore. I learned to grin and retort back at any sneers, bury myself in experiments, cases, observations. I grew cold, flatmate after flatmate leaving as quickly as they could manage, pinning me a "freak", callous and cold, bereft of a heart. But I started believing it after a while, and I acted in accordance with their expectations. The further I kept people the less they could hurt me. You were right, caring isn't an advantage. Caring allows you to get hurt. So what if I wasn't wanted? I'd live the rest of my life rather quickly regardless.

But then I met John by sheer circumstance, and he didn't run away; he ran with me. He stuck by me after the cases, through the insensitivity, through the drug busts. He never poked or prodded at my past. We may have bickered, bantered, fought, but he was my friend, brother. My only friend. We were both so lonely and then we had each other. Nothing else mattered. For the first time in a long time, I cherished just what I had. I desperately wanted for more time, but I knew it couldn't be possibly so. Caring may not be an advantage for people like us, but it's worth it Mycroft, I swear it. After sifting through all the pain and rejection, I've never been happier. The greatest risk reaped the grandest of rewards. I hope you can find your disadvantage one day, brother.

So I'll let you win, Mycroft. I suppose it's my place to say the unsaid. I know you regret how I was raised, all those times you apologized to me after receiving news from the specialists, all those times you had to tell me that you couldn't find anything to help me. I know you cared, just how hard you tried. So don't fret, you ninny. This was my fault entirely, fueled by my childish vices and a poor combination of genes. You don't need to feel guilty, brother. I was the one who chose to do the things I did, and you tried to do what you thought was in my best interests. Even though I should probably be asking forgiveness for my outlandish behavior, I forgive you, Mycroft. If you couldn't already tell (what with our deceptively scathing banter). After all, you're my only brother. All I ever wanted was your attention.

Live well, try not to engineer some sort ends to the Earth. Please do check in on John, make sure he's doing well (though I have no doubts my strong soldier should be just fine). Farewell, brother. This is the last you'll ever hear from me.

With Love,

Sherlock Holmes

_Mycroft's eyes hung on the last loop in Sherlock's signed name. He never signed his full name. How final. Tears slipping down his face, Mycroft reread the two concluding paragraphs in awe. Sherlock had forgiven him for everything it seemed, no matter how grave his past offenses. In his own way, he loved him. But Mycroft still felt guilty, how little credit he had given his brother, how little attention he had genuinely paid where it counted. It was too late, he sighed._

_After what seemed like an eternity spent absorbing the contents of his brother's letter, rereading bits, a part of him felt lighter. At least Sherlock hadn't died hating him. _

_"My strong soldier," Mycroft repeated to himself, noting his brother's likely inadvertent word choice. Sherlock honestly cared for that silly little man, didn't he? John was Sherlock's disadvantage. Just as Sherlock was his. A sadness struck him, realising just how alone John now was. See, this is why he didn't care about others. It always led to pain. Nervously chuckling, Mycroft shook his head. He couldn't possibly bear another disadvantage in his life. He couldn't handle another Sherlock._

_Setting the letter back on his desk, Mycroft leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He needed to calm down before making good on Sherlock's last wish. Now confident that his voice would not falter, he picked up his phone and dialed. A voice erupted from the other line, and Mycroft continued, "Ah, Mrs. Hudson. I have a favor to ask of you..." _

**End of Chapter 7**

**A/n: I dunno. There's a part of me that thinks that Mycroft only cares because Sherlock can sully his name, but there's this other part that thinks he just cares too much (not to mention the part that Sherlock was actually bullied to the point where he stopped caring about others, that he was actually just as lonely as John. After all, since he could afford it, why would someone look for flatmates if he didn't care for people?). That's clearly the part that wrote this, and hopefully the part of you that read this. Thoughts? This chapter was rather difficult for me to piece together, so now that you've read, please review 'n subscribe 'n stuff! 'Till next time guys! **


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